


Episode 14: A Warrior's Lunch

by PitoyaPTx



Series: Clan Meso'a [14]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clan Meso'a, Gen, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, Worldbuilding, exotic foods, mother figure, spicy caf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 13:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitoyaPTx/pseuds/PitoyaPTx
Summary: "If your morning caf gives you a nosebleed, blessing be on your goings!" ~ poorly translated Meso'a sayingA day in the life of a Meso'a largely from Cara's perspective.





	Episode 14: A Warrior's Lunch

Young children scurried about the paths and alleys that connected the houses with tusked, black animals at their heels nipping and barking delightedly. The elderly sat on padded benches with their looms and bowls full of meat and fruits; groups of warriors, in full armor or with jumpsuits exposed, stretched or talked amiably with one another in their rapid indigenous tongue, and several women with infants gathered near a tree with blankets tucked under their arms. Overhead, a few ships hummed by carrying freight towards either the north or the east; a pod of stonerays darted out of the treeline, swooping and diving at their prey hidden in the branches and underbrush.  
Steam rose out of vents spaced six feet apart along the curbs, filling the air with the succulent smells of cooking food: steamed vegetables, breads baking lazily in earthen ovens, and meat being prepped for a day long roast. Gentle humming from speeders idling beside homes or along the roadways could be heard over the rhythmic din of talking. A few pack animals of various species mozied about with their masters beside them. From a side street, a troop of children clad in jumpsuits and minimal armor raced down the road towards three warriors in full armor sans the furs.  
“Ver’gebuir, naal’ta!” they squealed, spinning around and showing the warriors their armors and face paints.  
“Naal’na!” one grinned and clapped his hands with delight.  
The children hushed at a female warrior’s command, crossed their arms behind their backs, and lifted their chins. She gave them a sharp nod and motioned for them to follow.  
Down the road a man was sweeping away bits of twigs and tree needles with two children, one strapped to his chest and the other on his back. Several teenagers were jogging by with an older warrior at the head of the pack shouting commands over his shoulder. The claws of their footwear tapped in unison, their spacing near perfect as if choreographed. In place of chest armor and the warrior’s furs, the youngsters wore a red scarf clasped behind them by a gold-and-jade bead. Their eyes were trained forward, their faces resolute. Several young children waved or raced alongside them until they grew too tired or an adult pulled them away. Pride was on the face of every onlooker, young and old alike, as the group weaved through the morning crowds out of sight up the mountain.  
Past the homes and down into the valley proper, the stone houses turned into colored canvas canopies and open spaces surrounded by shops, a small medical clinic, post office, cantinas of varying styles and drink preferences, and a central well watched over by four stone figures in various poses. One, holding her helmet under her arm, was a Togruta. She was oval-faced and quite tall, boasting large head tails and low relief carvings of her simple facial markings. She was posed with her hand shielding her eyes as she looked off towards the North Western end of the mountain range. A plaque beneath her read “Ponv Beroya”. Seated against the well, following her gaze to the West, was a Human with short cropped hair, a jagged cut across his lower lip, and a two-handed canon propped up beside him. If he was standing, he wouldn’t be quite as tall as Ponv, but he wasn’t short either. He had the build of a sprinter, and his arms suggested he could lift a full grown Nerf without breaking a sweat. On the ground at his feet, the plaque read “Loran Beroya”. Opposite him, leaning over a navigational device of some kind, was a Trandoshan scratching her head. Her features were carved so delicately that, had she been painted, she might as well be the real thing. Between her legs was a small crate of food by the looks of it. Upon further inspection there was a hunk of something in her mouth. No doubt a snack before their trek into the mountains. On the crate was her plaque: “Guuit Bralor”. The fourth figure, with her arms crossed and gaze eastbound, was a petite Zabrak with her back to the well. There was something youthful about her face, something distant-yet-hopeful about her eyes. A slight smile colored her features as if she was looking towards someone she was happy to see. With no other sculptures in the clearing, one could only guess whom the imaginary fifth person was. The plaque between her feet read “Greta Beroya”.  
Throngs of people bustled about the square between produce stands and various specialty stores, carrying everything from packages and crates to bags and the occasional young animal. One warrior was trying out product from a box labeled “Biodegradable blotting paper”; another was spreading a translucent gel on his cheeks and marveling at how well it broke down his face paint. Two women were talking excitedly as they carried a crate of alcohol between them; several elders were surveying a table lined with carved polarms and small knives. Several of the stubby tusked creatures roamed around in search of food generously given to them by passersby. Not one animal appeared starved or unhealthy, in fact a few were being looked over by a pair of warriors with a case of medical instruments. They stopped their examinations when they discovered one of them, a female with a white patch around her eye, was pregnant. She was gently lifted and taken into the medical clinic; a few children chased after them eager to see if she’d have puppies.  
Once the sun rose to its midday position, the streets became less and less crowded. Children were herded into two open air training yards nestled among the houses on the eastern and western ends of the village. Many adults still milled about, talking or getting ready for whatever jobs they may hold. A few headed into the cantinas, others made their way out into the grasslands to the south on speeders or animal mounts. All that remained were the elders looking longingly after their youthful counterparts. One elder, a woman with pale green skin and black under eye tattoos, wrapped a colorfully woven blanket around her shoulders and stood up straight. She lifted her chin to her friends, who giggled and returned the gesture, then paraded around the square holding a staff and loftily speaking their native tongue. Her friends, now doubled over, grabbed their own blankets and joined her. They marched in line, grasped each other by the forearm and addressed one another as if they were still the warriors of their youth. They pranced around for a few minutes before tiring out and collapsing onto nearby benches in fits of laughter, proving that you’re only as old as you choose to believe. 

Cara leaned over the crenelations of the cantina’s roof, watching the world go by around her. Seeing the elders pretend to be warriors was the highlight over her day until Aviila, helmet still on tight, returned with lunch. That morning, she’d tasted a variety of pastries stuffed with meats, fruits, or sweet custards. She’d even tried a drink known as Ka’hast or “fire blood” which Aviila explained as a spicy version of caf. Though the drink nearly gave her a nosebleed, Cara found its warming properties worth it enough to order a second mug full.  
Aviila returned carrying two bowls of fruit coated with a light drizzling of honey and a dusting of powdered sugar. Now alone, save for Cara, she removed her helmet and set it on the chair beside her.  
“Not the healthiest meal I’ll ever eat,” Cara chuckled, digging into the sweet assortment.  
“Mm,” Aviila agreed, tucking into her own bowl, “But it will get you used to some of our more bitter produce.”  
Cara nodded, though still able to taste the acidic bite through the honey and sugar.  
“Thank you,” she said, “You’ve… been doing a lot for me.”  
“You were alone and afraid. How could I leave you there?”  
Beon and Fent where with me, Cara thought.  
“Is.. is Clan Ordo really that bad?”  
Aviila sat back, idly rubbing her left wrist with her right hand. Her eyes were distant, scanning the treeline to the north for something Cara couldn’t discern. Something… upsetting flashed across her face as if what she was thinking about made her… sad. The longer she stared, the more Cara felt she was actually staring at something. She made to turn around, but Aviila suddenly, almost purposefully, cleared her throat.  
“When you join the Chibala, you will learn about our struggles with our fellow mando’ade,” she said, careful with her wording.  
She watched Cara frown again, no doubt tired of hearing that response by now. She reached across the table and took the young woman’s hand.  
“You will be fine,” she tried to reassure her, “The war won’t affect you or the Chibala in any way.”  
“That’s...not what I’m worried about,” Cara admitted, not meeting her eyes, “Sometimes I.. wonder if.. If I should be here at all, I mean… I’m still really scared! Like… a week ago I lost my father and now.. I’m on a planet I didn’t know existed with people I’ve heard horror stories about!”  
Concerned, Aviila straightened up, “Horror stories? About the Meso’a?”  
“No, about Mandalorians in general,” Cara gestured broadly, “My parents hated bounty hunters. Thought they were bad for business, given that our clients were normally on their bad side until…” she paused.  
“Until the Ordo’ade?”  
“The what?”  
Aviila chuckled, “Ordo’ade in this case means they are members of Clan Ordo. Literally it means “children of Ordo”, but…” she stopped, watching as Cara rested her head on her arms crossed on the table, her eyes downcast.  
“Hello, vod!” Fent had said.  
Cara flicked a rolled up piece of napkin and watched it bounce off the still-steaming mug of Ka’hast. Another sip might do her some good, might take away the ache growing across her arms. She pushed herself up, took the mug, and braved a deeper swig than she’d dared to earlier. Through the tears welling up in her eyes and the searing heat of whatever pepper used in the mixture, she noticed Aviila looking off towards the mountain again.  
“What’s up there?”  
Avilla continued to stare as if in a trance then almost imperceptibly shook her head.  
“Nothing in that direction,” she turned back to Cara, features as warm as they had been previously, “But you will-”  
“Learn more when I join the Chibala,” Cara repeated, no longer able to hide her growing impatience.  
I don’t want to be here, came a voice in the back of her head. I don’t belong here.  
“What are you thinking about?”  
Cara shook her head, “Nothing...just,” she took a deep breath, “What does ‘vod’ mean?”  
“Brother or sister in the literal sense. Sometimes friend. You can call anyone you are close to that unless they’ve said otherwise… why?”  
Cara shrugged and rested her head on her hand. The square was roaring back to life as groups of children rushed down from the hillside to meet up with parents or siblings back from wherever..Cara’s thoughts trailed off long before she really noticed their arrival.  
“You alright?” Beon had asked.  
“I’m.. I’m not,” she wished she’d replied.  
“What did you think so far of your first day on Meso’kaan?” Aviila’s question butted into her thoughts.  
Cara glanced over at her then back at the square.  
“I...could see myself feeling at home someday,” she lied.  
Aviila’s eyes lit up, “Really?”  
Cara forced an enthusiastic smile. Aviila appeared convinced.


End file.
